Friday, February o2, 2o18
Luckily, I got about two hours worth of sleep time before I had to be up at ten to wake David up with a phone call so he could get showered, dressed and ready to pick me up at eleven so we could catch a noon showing of The Maze Runner: Death Cure. Oh! We also had to stop by our friend's house and pick her up too. Yes, I did say "her" because our friend IS a girl named Vickie. I know, I know, usually we don't take a member of that other sex with us, but Vickie need to get herself out of her house and do something. So, me and David are in the same head space . . . forcing ourselves to go out and do something . . . anything. And our choices are limited because I'm not all that interested in music, and David is such a local groupie. I like to ride my bike, but David doesn't have a bike so . . . so, movies are about the only thing we can do to just get out of the house instead standing in the doorway of our respective apartments yelling, 'You kids get off my lawn!"
Anyway, the movie was really exciting, lots of action, good versus evil and shot so well with very little (if any) CGI. Okay, they did use a CGI trick I hate, fake muzzle flash from guns, but the rest of the movie was so interesting that I overlooked this one . . . blemish.
Saturday, February o3, 2o18
There's a hole, an emptiness inside my . . . spirit? My imagination? Deep down in the ME of me. And like with all holes, any empty space that nature finds it begins to fill it in with . . . mind dirt, subconscious sediment . . . a darkness so dark . . . the eyes begin to scream . . . And when the screaming becomes unbearable, the gentle fingers of Nature plucks your eyes out your bald head and feeds them to the crows. And silence rushes into the sockets, the red gouges and order returns cool and refreshing like the wet washcloth mother would lay on my forehead when I was 6 years old, delirious with . . . chickenpox. And you think that chickenpox would be enough of a physical torture for we childrens to get the hint . . . But you know all this. You knew when that endless silence dropped its eternal spit in those empty sockets the world would dissolve and disappear just as speedily as the blond-haired English girl who swore she would forever love me. And I suppose she didn't lie. Maybe she does still love me . . . only from about three thousand miles away.
Sunday, February o4, 2o18 12:37am
I'm wandering now. Lost in the desert searching for a sturdy prophecy, one made of driftwood, light and durable. A man, an old man always needs a good stick to guide him to the edge of that endless wet spot.
Monday, February o5, 2o18
The older I get, the farther I'm removed from this life, from this existence that at one time was so important. Saturday nights. Beer, the jukebox at the old watering hole. Love. Blondes with thick, sturdy legs, lips like fat caterpillars . . . but no fur. Summer nights, hot, sweaty. You as shadow in my bed or your bed or up against a wall in some ally we staggered into. All of that? A shrug of my arthritic shoulders and the memories dissolve into a puttylike fog that my raspy breath blows into the shadows that the one lone streetlight outside my apartment window provides.
Tuesday, February o6, 2o18
So, again, very little sleep. Maybe two hours or so. Not up until 1:30pm. What a cosmic
drag it is to sleep most of the sun away. But my friend David called just as I was getting up to remind me that we were meeting with an old friend, Patrick McCord, for coffee. So, a fast dress, brush the old ivories and out the door we go to YuYu! Okay, David's got a thing about this Egyptian coffee house that I don't quite appreciate. Too expensive for me . . . and not that much coffee in the cup. "But I don't complain." David laughed when I said that.
Anyway, Patrick is an old friend from my undergraduate days in the OU Drama Department. A really good actor. Much better at the craft than me. He spent, I think, a year studying acting in London. He came back saying "Shedule" instead of the American way "schedule."
Anyway, we gabbed a while, remembering old stories from back in the day, and discussing how much it sucks getting old . . . er.
It's good to see old friends. Friends of our youth. Our stupid, awkward youth. A lot of my memories though are not that pleasant. I was an angry sober guy . . . made even angrier when I drank . . . which was almost every night when I didn't have rehearsal. Oh, yeah. I never drank during rehearsal or a show. To be honest, it was just the excuse I gave myself to be a nasty drunk . . . Hey, at least I didn't drink during a show. I gots class!
Wednesday, February o7, 2018
Hey! The last day for writing on the blog . . . AND . . . I almost got through writing something every day! Yeah! Beer on me! So, what's happened today that everybody who religiously reads my blog is just waiting to hear what I have to say about it.
1. Trump wants a parade ala Adolf in his prime. After the parade of giant missiles and even larger egos. And after the parade let's invade Poland.
2. Went to bed . . . 8am? Hard to tell. Awake, asleep are blending together so much i can't tell which reality I'm in. I do know that I finally woke up (I was asleep . . . I think) at 3:30pm. THIS MUST STOP! I feel like I'm sleeping through life.
3. I still find myself thinking about something that happened in the past and I get really angry. Old girlfriends (who probably have more reason to be mad a me than I have reason to be angry with them), slights against me from friends. Enemies fucking with me isn't a bother. That's what they're suppose to do . . . fuck with you. But my friends? What the hell, man.?Oh, remember the guy from Art Walk that kept bumping into me on purpose over and over again? Well, I was sitting in Yuyu's (horribly expensive coffee but nice staff) listening to this band and a blobby shadow moves passed and "nudge, nudge" I get bumped and . . .IT'S THE SAME GUY FROM ART WALK! I tell David about it and I get the old, "Oh, he did not." David doesn't believe anything I say about this "nudger!" He doesn't even believe that the guy did it, on purpose, at Art Walk! "He has a PhD! He wouldn't do something like that!" IF it happens again, I'm going to say something to Doctor Him . . . but I won't get ANGRY! Or if I do get angry . . . I'll smile while being so.
4. I'm working on a new poem. Needs a lot of work, but the idea is sound:
Close my eyes and dream about
the love I've lost and never found
nightmares wake me up before
my dreaming time is up
the alarm clock blares
who cares no one cares
or so it seems to we
who never get a chance to sleep
who never get chance to say I'm sorry
Anyway, the movie was really exciting, lots of action, good versus evil and shot so well with very little (if any) CGI. Okay, they did use a CGI trick I hate, fake muzzle flash from guns, but the rest of the movie was so interesting that I overlooked this one . . . blemish.
There's a hole, an emptiness inside my . . . spirit? My imagination? Deep down in the ME of me. And like with all holes, any empty space that nature finds it begins to fill it in with . . . mind dirt, subconscious sediment . . . a darkness so dark . . . the eyes begin to scream . . . And when the screaming becomes unbearable, the gentle fingers of Nature plucks your eyes out your bald head and feeds them to the crows. And silence rushes into the sockets, the red gouges and order returns cool and refreshing like the wet washcloth mother would lay on my forehead when I was 6 years old, delirious with . . . chickenpox. And you think that chickenpox would be enough of a physical torture for we childrens to get the hint . . . But you know all this. You knew when that endless silence dropped its eternal spit in those empty sockets the world would dissolve and disappear just as speedily as the blond-haired English girl who swore she would forever love me. And I suppose she didn't lie. Maybe she does still love me . . . only from about three thousand miles away.
I'm wandering now. Lost in the desert searching for a sturdy prophecy, one made of driftwood, light and durable. A man, an old man always needs a good stick to guide him to the edge of that endless wet spot.
Monday, February o5, 2o18
The older I get, the farther I'm removed from this life, from this existence that at one time was so important. Saturday nights. Beer, the jukebox at the old watering hole. Love. Blondes with thick, sturdy legs, lips like fat caterpillars . . . but no fur. Summer nights, hot, sweaty. You as shadow in my bed or your bed or up against a wall in some ally we staggered into. All of that? A shrug of my arthritic shoulders and the memories dissolve into a puttylike fog that my raspy breath blows into the shadows that the one lone streetlight outside my apartment window provides.
Tuesday, February o6, 2o18
So, again, very little sleep. Maybe two hours or so. Not up until 1:30pm. What a cosmic
Anyway, Patrick is an old friend from my undergraduate days in the OU Drama Department. A really good actor. Much better at the craft than me. He spent, I think, a year studying acting in London. He came back saying "Shedule" instead of the American way "schedule."
Anyway, we gabbed a while, remembering old stories from back in the day, and discussing how much it sucks getting old . . . er.
It's good to see old friends. Friends of our youth. Our stupid, awkward youth. A lot of my memories though are not that pleasant. I was an angry sober guy . . . made even angrier when I drank . . . which was almost every night when I didn't have rehearsal. Oh, yeah. I never drank during rehearsal or a show. To be honest, it was just the excuse I gave myself to be a nasty drunk . . . Hey, at least I didn't drink during a show. I gots class!
Hey! The last day for writing on the blog . . . AND . . . I almost got through writing something every day! Yeah! Beer on me! So, what's happened today that everybody who religiously reads my blog is just waiting to hear what I have to say about it.
1. Trump wants a parade ala Adolf in his prime. After the parade of giant missiles and even larger egos. And after the parade let's invade Poland.
2. Went to bed . . . 8am? Hard to tell. Awake, asleep are blending together so much i can't tell which reality I'm in. I do know that I finally woke up (I was asleep . . . I think) at 3:30pm. THIS MUST STOP! I feel like I'm sleeping through life.
3. I still find myself thinking about something that happened in the past and I get really angry. Old girlfriends (who probably have more reason to be mad a me than I have reason to be angry with them), slights against me from friends. Enemies fucking with me isn't a bother. That's what they're suppose to do . . . fuck with you. But my friends? What the hell, man.?Oh, remember the guy from Art Walk that kept bumping into me on purpose over and over again? Well, I was sitting in Yuyu's (horribly expensive coffee but nice staff) listening to this band and a blobby shadow moves passed and "nudge, nudge" I get bumped and . . .IT'S THE SAME GUY FROM ART WALK! I tell David about it and I get the old, "Oh, he did not." David doesn't believe anything I say about this "nudger!" He doesn't even believe that the guy did it, on purpose, at Art Walk! "He has a PhD! He wouldn't do something like that!" IF it happens again, I'm going to say something to Doctor Him . . . but I won't get ANGRY! Or if I do get angry . . . I'll smile while being so.
4. I'm working on a new poem. Needs a lot of work, but the idea is sound:
Close my eyes and dream about
the love I've lost and never found
just
like a pair of socks she disappeared
between
swigs from a longneck beer
and music in my ears singing softly
do
not go, please don't go from here.and music in my ears singing softly
nightmares wake me up before
my dreaming time is up
the alarm clock blares
who cares no one cares
or so it seems to we
who never get a chance to sleep
who never get chance to say I'm sorry
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